Just a few hours ago I was able to finish my entry in our school's creative writing competition. The theme relates to "new way of living" and I almost ran out of ideas. Then a question popped up like a lightbulb above my clouded brain: Have you ever wondered what it's like to see nothing?
So This is What the World is Like
My hands reached out to catch the warm rays of the bright light that sits in a vast space of calmness. But I did not get to set my eyes on it for a long time since tears started to flow from my orbs.
“Don’t stare at it the sun for too long, or this might not last.” A lady clad in what seems to be colorless clothes gently ran her fingers on my cheek, wiping the drops of water spilled from my newly-given gift. This is the first time I have seen her, but the sweet voice escaping from her lips feels like home.
“If this is the sun, then those might be the clouds,” I pointed out at the masses drifting in the sky. “And those moving creatures are birds!” Now I realized the tears weren’t caused by my awe in the sun, but they were from my heart, which was brimming with joy and gratefulness.
“So this is what the world is like, Grace.” The woman’s lips curved as her arms reached out to envelope me. “I am happy for you, Old Dillon.” She started sobbing in my arms, “I am so happy for you.” She pulled away from the hug and used a handkerchief to dry her eyes.
“Alas, Dillon!” Doctor Kit walked toward me. I tried to carefully lift my body from the wheelchair to welcome the good man. “No need, old man. You are still recovering so better stay in that chair.” like Grace, he also gave me a warm embrace.
“So, what is the world like?” he smiled at me, his voice has always been optimistic, but now I can witness his eyes bearing a glimmer of hope. “It’s beautiful, Doctor. After five decades and nine years of seeing complete darkness, it’s as beautiful as what my wife Matilda always used to say.” My lovely wife used to read to me, she would describe the world and everything with intricacy and her details are always vivid. She was my eyes when mine can see nothing.
“Are you ready to meet her then?” A subtle hint of concern flashed on Nurse Grace’s face when she asked me, but I showed her the best smile that I can offer as I nodded. Doctor Kit bade farewell and Nurse Grace took the handles of my wheelchair and
began to push it towards the door. Towards the world that I was once deprived of seeing. To a new normal in the short remaining bars of my timeline.
I let my eyes roam around the hospital for the first and last time. This has been my second home, next to the cozy bungalow Matilda and I shared before time took her away from me. The hospital walls no longer feel encompassing, the sounds no longer feel unfamiliar. As we passed through the hospital’s exit, the world was even brighter, and the soft gust of wind swept my burgeoning worries away.
“We’re almost there,” Grace shifted the direction of the wheels, and a beautiful garden welcomed us. “Oh I have never seen this place before,” I told her, hoping to break the silence that fostered since we left the hospital. “Of course, you’ve never seen this before,” she replied. And we both laughed as we passed the metal arch with blossoming vines creeping on it. The carpet of flowers stretched to the horizon, but we made our stop near a stone mounted on a lump of freshly-dug soil beside the white tulips.
“Here she is.” Grace positioned my wheelchair near the stone, it’s now closed for me to touch, hug, and even lay my head on. And so I did. “She was settled there last week, just a day before your operation. Sadly, we did not get a word from her on her death bed, but she did request something to be carved on her tombstone.” Grace’s voice was faltering while she tried to stop her tears from welling up as she uttered every single word.
“Hush now, dear Grace,” I smiled. “You can stroll for a while to rid yourself of the sadness,” She nodded in response and made her way to the yellow tulips near the borderline where the setting sun rests.
My eyes fixated on the gravestone my quivering hand softly grazes every carving. Matilda is, and will always be an angel. She fell in love with me even when I struggled to accept myself. She was much younger than me in years but bolder and wiser. In her arms I found refuge, and her presence granted me solace. In her remaining days, she told the doctors to give me her orbs. She was my eyes when mine can see nothing.
My fingers landed on the four Braille letters below her name. I closed my eyes as my heart feels every carved cell and gap. A tear rolled down my cheek but the soft wind stopped it from falling. LIVE was the word carved on her headstone.
I will, Matilda. I will make my remaining years on this planet count.
.
.
Despite being bestowed the name “Heather”, I found home in ephemeral.wisteria, which are two contradicting things: ephemeral being something that lasts for a very short time and wisteria symbolizing long life and prosperity.
At the young age of 17, I look forward to telling tales and amplifying voices. I am a dramatic vine. I adore acting. I dance as if no one is watching. I see books as realms and art as portals. I’ve got a couple of trades in my pocket but never did I get to master one.
Although I still cannot fathom why I desire to ink the paper, I do know that I write because my heart tells me to and somebody out there is destined to read it.